Page 30 of Beneath a Tennessee Sky

Chapter Ten

Jack

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I STARE AT MY PHONE screen—the album cover staring back at me, my own face looking all serious and “artistic” in black-and-white. Jack Hayes - Long Road Home. Out today.

“Shit,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. It’s longer now, styled some fancy way the label’s groomer insisted on.

I can’t believe this is real. The album dropped at midnight. I’m staring at my own face on Amazon Music. I swipe through the app, my stomach in knots. The reviews are already pouring in. Some glowing, some critical, but all of them about me. About my music. I feel like I’m floating and sinking at the same time.

My phone buzzes with a text from Liz: Get ready for the ride of your life, kid. The numbers are looking good. I’ll be there in ten minutes.

I have an assistant now. Well, technically it’s one of Liz’s assistants. I have a busy schedule today. I’m doing a bunch of press events and will be doing a performance tonight. Liz warned me this was going to be a wild week. I really hoped I could have Jinnie here for all this, but Liz told me I wouldn’t have time to spend with her. I should wait and bring her to Memphis when things settle down.

I texted Jinnie last night to remind her the album dropped at midnight. She replied with a clapping hand emoji. I assumed she was in bed and was probably at the bakery all day.

It’s not long before Liz strides in like she owns the place—hell, maybe she does. The label’s paying for this penthouse, after all. Today she’s all business in a sleek black pantsuit, her hair pulled back tight. But she’s carrying a garment bag.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Your outfit for today’s press tour.” She lays it across the couch like it’s some priceless artifact. She unzips the bag and pulls out the outfit. “Dolce & Gabbana. Custom fit.”

I step closer. It’s a shirt—silky, dark purple with some weird paisley pattern, the kind of thing I’d see in a magazine and immediately flip past.

“I’m not wearing that.”

Liz sighs, perching on the arm of the couch. “Jack, sweetheart, this isn’t some small-town bar anymore. You’re a recording artist now. Image matters. We’ve been working on this look for you for weeks.”

“I’ve got an image.” I gesture at myself—black jeans, my usual boots, a plain gray tee. “This is me. This is what people know.”

She stands, closing the distance between us. Her perfume hits me. I hate her perfume. I come home at night smelling like her. “And this”—she plucks at my t-shirt, her nails grazing my chest—“is what you wear to change your oil. That”—she nods to the designer shirt—“is what stars wear.”

“Liz, I told that stylist lady I wasn’t doing flashy and no jumpsuits.”

“It’s not a jumpsuit,” she says.

I glance at the shirt again, feeling a knot of unease tighten in my stomach. It’s not just the shirt—it’s everything. The way Liz talks about “the Jack Hayes brand,” the endless meetings with stylists, the photoshoots where they tell me to look “mysterious” or “brooding.” I feel like I’m being molded into something I don’t recognize.

But Liz is already moving on, pulling out her tablet and scrolling through my schedule for the day. “First stop is the radio station for an interview. Then we’ve got a magazine photoshoot, followed by a live acoustic performance in the park. You’ll get a break before the big event tonight.”

“The big event?” I ask, still distracted by the shirt.

She doesn’t look up from her tablet. “The release party. Industry people, press, fans—it’s going to be huge. You’ll need to be on your A-game. We’ll have another outfit for that.”

I swallow hard. “Right.”

Liz finally looks at me. I see the irritation in her expression. “Jack, this is what you wanted. This is what you worked for. Don’t let it scare you.”

“It’s not that,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure what it is. The pressure? The expectations? The way everything feels so... manufactured?

“Good,” she says, handing me the shirt. “Now get dressed. The car will be here in ten.”

I feel like I have to be grateful. I know how much work she’s put into making me a success.

I look at the shirt again. The pants are black and I swear there are sparkles in the fabric. I look at her with horror. “You can’t expect me to...sparkle?”

She waves a hand. “It’s fashion. You wear this kind of thing for events. When you’re performing, we’ll have you a little more casual.”